


After

by writerfan2013



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Curiosity, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Supposed virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerfan2013/pseuds/writerfan2013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is home after a different kind of mission. He has not told John what it was. But will John know what happened in Islamabad? Slight AU I guess. But it's my headcanon... Three parter. Johnlock alert!</p><p>(There was a fourth chapter here showing what happened Before. Now posted separately as tone and POV didn't fit properly. It bothered me and so it's gone. -Sef)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After

I thrust open the door and see John at the table by the window, reading a newspaper. He has taken advantage of my absence to hoover. Many small items have been removed from the floor. He's no housewife, though: they are repositioned on the table. He ate last night's takeaway around the debris. He has not eaten yet tonight - he has been waiting for me. There are Jammy Dodger crumbs on his lower lip.

He is tired - poor sleep rather than excessive activity - and his hands are full of the tension which he gathers inside himself when I am not here. I can see the awkward way his fingers grip the newspaper. They have been clenched more or less all the time I've been gone.

Ah John. It's good to see you.

He lifts his head and looks me straight in the eye as always. "You're back, then."

"Evidently." I drop my flight bag and unwind my scarf, flinging it on the sofa. My coat is unbuttoned in three seconds, and hefted over the sofa arm.

"Good trip?"

His tone is bland, polite, mildly interested. Does he know where I have been? How could he? I have been exceptionally careful on this one. Yet my paranoia rears up and wonders if he can see it in my face, in my body language, in the way I rest my hand on the back of the other dining chair.

Ridiculous. Yet I shift my stance and say too quickly, "Fine. Dinner?"

He smiles. He has been waiting for me to ask. "Case finished?"

I never said I was on a case. I wasn't. Yet it was a mission similar to a case and I have barely eaten. "More or less. -Yes."

A faint line appears between his eyes. I do not usually hesitate over my words. Every sentence is preprocessed. Mostly, anyway. John has witnessed almost all of the involuntary utterances. "You all right?" he asks, folding the paper, getting to his feet, frowning and adopting that brusque, casual tone he uses when he feels he is expressing an unmanly level of concern for his flatmate.

"Yes." If this is to be the level of conversation at dinner, I may reconsider. I concede: "Are you?"

"Fine, yeah."

I scan the room. John is four feet away on the other side of the table. My music stand is behind him. Good.

I saunter round and pluck at sheet music, scattered with my own pencil notations. Once you lose the fear of amending a so-called masterpiece, you can make some real improvements.

John is beside me, holding the daily rag, and as I take a breath to sigh out over my music, I inhale his scent, his honest masculinity, Imperial Leather soap and Lynx deodorant (that weird chocolate one supposed to attract the opposite sex but actually quite pleasant), espresso coffee from the machine at the surgery and sweat from the crowded commute home. Maybe he will shower later. I like the sweat but I also like the just-washed John smell. It's a close call between them, actually. John just smells good, generally. Good, and, thank God, male.

I have showered twice since parting from her, and still I long for my bath.

If I mention my (slight) injury, John will almost certainly offer to run me one.

If I do though, dinner will be delayed. We both need to eat. There is much to be done. I have neglected actual cases for this trip to Islamabad, and must catch up. An all-nighter may be called for... if John goes to bed. I hope he doesn't.

I scowl at my music and reach for the violin itself. Honestly. Unable to choose between a case and John's company. Dreadful. But these are unique circumstances.

John's hand lands on my shoulder, cupping the top of my arm. Warm palm, strong fingers. "You've got scratches on the back of your neck."

I slap my hand over them. "Bit of a fight," I say.

"They look nasty, let me take a look -"

"It's fine, don't fuss -"

He steps away, eyebrows raised. He hates being accused of fussing, even though he does, near constantly. When I am injured. Which is near constantly. I suppose it is fair enough.

"It's fine John, honestly."

Freud would smirk. Why do I need to add that last word? Am I trying to highlight truthfulness in the midst of my deception?

"Is your back ok?" he asks then.

My paranoia appears justified. (She promised me no one would know. Her favour to me, although when you look at the situation dispassionately, I seem to have done her far more favours than she has repaid. This may be part of the general problem with women: that they do not measure worth as we do. More thought required. No more research though. For the rest, I will extrapolate.) "It's fine. Shall we?" I indicate the door.

How does he know about my back? Am I walking funny? That is eminently possible. I have exercised places I only knew about in theory. Oh god.

I pick John's coat off the stand and help him into it. I am close to him again. As I place the anorak around his shoulders I experience a moment of pure sentiment and make a show of adjusting his collar while I recover. He is so valuable, so sweet and serious, and basically I cannot resist. Sometimes I think he knows it. The rest of the time he ignores his screaming subconscious in order to maintain his inaccurate version of reality.

I do wonder what he thinks I do for relief, for pleasure, for fun. Does he assume I do nothing? Does he assume I see women? Surely not. I mean, I could. Especially now. But the idea is somewhat fantastic. Men, then. He knows I don't.

There is only him, for now. He is currently my only person. And he smells so right. After all I've been through I want nothing more, at this moment, than to press my face to the nape of his neck and breathe him in, anchor myself once again in Baker Street, in the work, in John. I haven't shaved since Istanbul airport and my stubble would make him lurch round, hands wafting me away. But for a moment I would have his skin against mine and know comfort.

I want comfort. I - don't need it. Barring food, shelter and warmth, anything can be done without. Tonight though, I am appearing on the spectrum familiar to most people: I imagine my desires as needs, and I desire physical consolation.

Irene would no doubt take this as a massive insult. And she would be welcome.

 


	2. Later

Dinner. A French restaurant, John's favourite. Our hands on the table beside our plates. Exposed, on view. Separate. John looks at me often. He knows something is different. He knows I have done something, something out of my usual range of activity, and he is worried.

 

He moves. Slides my left jacket sleeve up, unbuttons my shirt cuff. I sit nicely and allow him to roll back my sleeve and rub his fingers over my forearm, the inside of the elbow. There are no marks, of course.

 

He doesn't bother to check the other arm. Knows I am right handed.

 

"Just being sure," he says in explanation. I nod. Quite right. I leave my arm slack on the table, and he sighs a smile and pulls down my sleeve, buttons me up again.

 

He sips his bottle of beer. I have one too, which I am ignoring.

 

Next is my neck. John gives me a doctor look, and curls his finger at me. I submit, bringing my head closer and he lightly touches the nail marks on my nape. His fingers go a bit further under my collar than necessary. I smirk. "Shut up," he says.    "Well, you'll live. Anything I can't see, apart from wrenching your back?"

 

"I don't think so."

 

He presses his lips together. "Hmm. Not sure I should take your word for it." His gaze roams over my face and chest.

 

I clutch my chilly beer bottle. Is he - flirting?

 

Many calculations run through my mind. John, flirting. He isn't. He doesn't do that. But he was jealous of Irene. He knows I've seen her. He knows I've helped her, therefore. And as a result, he suspects she and I went to bed. He resents the idea. He wants me to himself. He wants me, full stop. Impossible. No, it isn't. It wouldn't be the first incident. It would only be be the first incident not completely engineered by me. John just tolerated those contacts. Or maybe he enjoyed them. Maybe he wants more. It is not impossible. His square, rough fingers under my collar. Oh god.

 

This, then, is my conclusion: meaningless blasphemy indicating loss of blood supply to the brain as a result of speculation about John's intentions. It's a miracle I get any work done.

 

John is watching me think, head tilted to one side, one eyebrow raised.

 

I take a risk. It is only me. He can ignore it or write it off as one of my mad moments if he chooses. Or he can take it at face value. It will be fine. Unless he understands, in which case -

  
"Maybe you should check," I say, shrugging.

 

"Maybe I should," he says straight away.

 

I blink, break eye contact, study the tablecloth, look up at him again. His eyes. Blue like mine but darker, the colour of the sea on an overcast day. His mouth, lips just parted, tongue touching his upper left canine. "Home," I say, and we stand.

 

No need to pay. They know me here. Outside, straight into a cab. Sit looking out of our respective windows. John's left hand is on the seat between us. My hands are in my gloves.

 

My pulse rate is increased. I can feel my heartbeat throughout my body. Stress. Excitement. John shows neither. He meant nothing by it. Just messing about. The way we do. Two blokes together, two mates. Two friends.

 

"You let her touch you," he says without looking round.

 

I freeze. "Yes."

 

I knew he knew.

 

He turns then, examines my face. His eyes are crinkling at the corners, hiding hurt. Hurt at being lied to? Hurt at my ...infidelity?

 

"Where?" he asks quietly. "-I don't mean which country. Where did she touch you?"

 

I hesitate. "Everywhere."

 

He flinches. Looks involuntarily at my legs, my ... groin.

 

Oh. So this is real, then. Not so many maybes after all, and I have asked him to be my doctor in a way we both understand.

 

"It was an experiment," I say. "I just - wanted to know."

 

He nods.

 

How to explain that it did not mean anything? That Irene is interesting but not important. "I -"

 

"Was it good?" he interrupts.

 

"I don't know." Not quite true. "It was different."

 

This gets me a sharp look. So he did think I had zero experience, then. Mycroft's gossip. Irritating and damaging.

 

"Parts of it were good," I say. If I am to be honest about this, I must be completely honest.

 

John blinks several times. Tears? Or an attempt to disguise emotions usually visible in the eyes? I don't know what to say or do. I seem to have upset him but it is not clear with what. Is it sex, sex with a woman, sex with Irene  or sex with anyone except John? Or is he upset because I lied about a mission which could have left me dead and unidentified in a hostile country, never coming home. (I never thought of it from that perspective. John's eyes show fear for me so often that I have tuned it out.)

 

We are at Baker Street. I pay the cabbie and John gives me a look. I never pay. But tonight is different. Already we have shared more detail than ever previously, about our intimate lives. Well, mine. I suppose he realises that I already know everything he did with everyone he's ever brought back to the flat.

 

Upstairs, we stand in the living room, coats off, and avoid each other's gaze. I look around our cosy home and ask, "What gave it away?"

 

John gives a brief laugh. "You. You looked so guilty."

 

Then he seems sad again and I have to act. "Please,' I say, and he looks up at me. I never say please.  "Check me. I - " I am blushing, so embarrassing, but it is too late to unsay it now so I continue. "I want you to."

 

He put this card on the table and I am playing it. A private fantasy, which he has guessed, or which, perhaps, he shares. And another reason why Irene could not play this game with me. She is not a real doctor.

 

Johns hand goes to his mouth and he rubs at it, at his chin. "All right."

 

I stand still. He stays where he is, looking me up and down. I notice my hands are trembling, and curl them into fists.

 

"Don't," he says. "Stand there." His doctor voice. A little touch of his soldier voice thrown in. Oh John. How did you know?

 

I can barely breathe. I loosen my hands as he asked.

 

He steps to me, nods, then puts his hands on my shirt collar. He is warm. I am burning up. The top button is open as always, but now John undoes the next two, three, four, and pulls the shirt apart. He places his hands on my bare chest, fingers splayed. "Hmmm." The vibration of his assessment passes from his chest to mine. A channel between us, an audible connection.

 

It is not a moment to speak, even assuming I could.

 

"Off," John says, brushing at my shirt. "I need to see your back."

 

I wriggle out of the shirt and drop it on the floor. As it settles into a puddle of purple cloth, I think: the first piece of evidence. Someone walking in later would see that shirt and know that I undressed here, or was undressed. You don't leave a shirt on the floor in passing.

 

This makes me think of people outside, able to see us through the windows.

 

I look across but John, now pacing round me and frowning, says, “I closed the curtain before we left. In case."

 

I had not thought it possible to find the situation any more erotic, but the idea that he imagined this, planned this, is powerful. I almost drop but his stern expression keeps me in place.

 

John touches my back with delicate fingers. He traces routes along and down and I close my eyes and see his touch like contrails and my skin is the sky. "Your back seems fine," he pronounces.

 

He comes round to face me. Gives me a raised eyebrow, then crouches down. I gasp, but he is only unlacing my shoes, taking them off, then my socks. He does this so matter-of-factly that I want to exclaim, to speak, to push my hands into his hair and tell him that he can do anything, however he likes, that whatever he wants I will not object, he can have me, all of me, now, please.

 

He gets to his feet and stands in front of me.

 

"John - " My voice is thick. My body is gearing up, to run, to fight, to engage. It has been a long time. Except for last night, obviously. Last night does not count.

 

His expression does not change, but his eyes flicker. "Did she touch you here?" he asks, and rests his left palm on my right pectoral.

 

"Yes-"

 

"Here?" His right hand on my belly.

 

"Yes."

 

His breath catches. His fingers trail down my navel to my belt.  "You want me to check," he confirms, his little finger on my buckle.

 

"God yes-"

 

He steps away. For a horrible moment I think it was all an experiment in revenge - paying me back for my betrayal, my unfaithfulness to the us I had hardly begun to imagine. But then he says, "Help me get out of this," and pulls off his sweater. I reach for him, tug at it, not really helping at all. I never really help when there is an opportunity to lay my hands on his warm, firm body.

 

He smirks at my eagerness, and the sweater lands on top of my shirt.

 

He has a checked shirt on underneath, and - my fingers on his shoulder blades, still notionally helping - a T shirt under that. I gaze at him and completely fail to get any of the buttons undone. He puts his hand over mine, over his heart, and stares at me with his perfect steadiness, and my fingers return to life.

 

He is hard and smooth under the T shirt. I want to take it off, but also to keep it on because he always covers himself up and he should really walk around in just a T shirt. It makes him look -

 

In the mirror over the fireplace I see us reflected, my pale and naked chest, John in a fitted white T shirt. It makes him look overtly masculine, even more than his everyday potent maleness. In a T shirt and no jumper he could have anyone he chooses, I think, and am amazed by this simple revelation. So why all the layers? I don't care. He has taken them off for me.

 

I turn back to him and he smiles at me, a brief, professional smile. I wait, even though the waiting is painful, is agony, is the best thing that has ever happened to me. _Please John. Please._

 

It is his move to make and he does not hesitate. He takes hold of my shoulders and kisses me. Not on the cheek, as he has done once before, reviving me after a fall, not on the forehead, as I lay sleeping on the sofa after four days on a case with no rest, not my hand as he did after I told him I had to go away and didn't say where, and he said, _Just come back,_ and now I have. He kisses my mouth, softly, and I break, just break apart. _John, don't stop, more, please kiss me again, more -_

 

My words emerge as a single sob of relief and desire.

 

He folds me into his arms and kisses me again. Lips, tongue, his warmth and wetness inside me, promising more, promising me everything.

 

I run my hands over his back, grip his hair, gasp into the kiss and pull his hips against mine.

 

"John,” I say, hoarse with want, with gratitude for his maleness, and he takes my hands and puts them on his jeans. Rough denim over firm muscle. Perfect. His fingers are inside the back of my trousers and he is nuzzling my neck, kissing, sucking, biting -

 

The biting is likely to end me. I detach him and run my fingers over his face. He laughs and puts my index finger into his mouth. "Oh god -"

 

"Bed," he says, pulling my finger free and curling his hand around mine. "I want to -"

 

 _Say it. Say it now._ But he stands wincing until I suggest, "You're jealous of her. Irene."

 

His nostrils flare at her name. "Sort of. I don't know. I just - Listen. You're not the only one with curiosity. You wanted to know so you found out. Fine. Well, now I want to. Know," he says, and I am lost.

 

"I love you," I say, and my eyes go wide. Words I have never said to anyone. Words I never intended to utter, but they burst from me - from my gut, my heart I suppose, without my permission. They are true. He is my only person. And I love him.

 

His eyes fill with tears. "I know," he says. "Come on." He tugs me through the kitchen.

 

I hardly trust myself now to give an answer. He is drawing reactions unbidden from me. At my bedroom door, however, he stops and gives me an enquiring look. Squeezes my fingers. "Where shall we start?"

 

I look at my hand clasped within his competent grip. I am his, I have declared it now and there is no further need for self restraint. I am home from the desert and free, and about to live out, it seems, my own secret desire. So I breathe deeply, allow my heart rate to soar in blissful anticipation and say simply, "Everywhere."

 

He grins, elbows open my door and I let him lead me inside.

 

 

 


End file.
